I will move away from here, you won't be afraid of fear

Ten years ago today, a spark of artistic genius was snuffed out. Ten years ago, Kurt Cobain died.

Kurt Cobain was a true artist who emerged in a world of vapid, cookie-cutter entertainment, assembly-line sentiments like "I'll be lovin' you forever," "please don't go, girl." I won't insult the fans of junk like that, because I was right there with them, a rabid little fangirl, but I will say that in the early '90s, a music revolution took place. The airwaves were dominated by cheap, sappy pop music calling itself "rock," and then, that all changed when one song came out that defied the label, a song that simply couldn't be shoehorned into the same category as everything else, a song which, along with Blind Melon's "No Rain" and Soundgarden's "Black Hole Sun," forced the creation of the label "alternative rock." That song was "Smells Like Teen Spirit."

At the time, it was a breath of fresh air in an era of stale pop music, something different that millions latched onto, spawning the whole Seattle grunge explosion. This wasn't manufactured, engineered, sappy crooning. This was raw emotion, poured out into lyrics that were sung in a tormented growl. And that resonated with the masses, thousands of people who heard the power in those lyrics, felt the range of emotions within them, depression and angst and sarcasm and regret. There was honesty in Kurt's words, unvarnished and laid bare for the world. With each song, people got another glimpse into his psyche as he poured his deeply personal angst into his lyrics.

But he was tortured, tortured by himself. He couldn't ever get comfortable with fame, with the idea that these musical chunks of his soul could be sold to millions of people and advertised and distributed and profitted from. He was depressed. He suffered from chronic and severe stomach pains. He turned to heroin to dull the pain, but that wasn't a cure; nothing could make his life good, even the birth of his daughter.

He thought about quitting Nirvana after just three years of fame. He was still writing songs, but he contemplated giving up his musical career for painting. He wasn't just musically talented -- he'd been a gifted artist since he was very young, painting images of his grim mental state, sometimes painting on the backs of boards from old board games bought at a thrift store, sometimes mixing his own blood or semen into the paint, physically putting pieces of himself into his art.

And then, at the tragic age of 27, the age when Hendrix and Joplin and Morrison died, he injected himself with a massive dose of heroin, and then he put a single bullet into his head.

Thousands mourned the passing of this tormented soul, this artistic genius who just couldn't take the pain anymore. I'll admit that I was less affected by the news at the time than many -- to me, it was more of an "oh, that sucks, no more Nirvana songs" reaction. But after having wrestled with depression myself, after having contemplated suicide many times during that period and (thankfully) never having the guts to attempt it, I see things in a different light. I see how tragic it was that nobody could help him, that not even fame or fortune or a family of his own could ease his pain. I wonder what it might be like if he had somehow gotten help, if he had at least managed to cope with the physical pain and perhaps kick his heroin addiction. Would he have written more music, put out more albums with Nirvana? Would we be hearing about his gallery shows and auctions of his artwork? Would he have settled into doting fatherhood and become more contented with his life? We'll never know.

I hope that wherever he is now, his pain is gone. I hope that his art continues to live on and inspire new generations as it does now. And I hope that somewhere out there, at least one person with personal demons learned from this, learned that you don't have to meet a tragic end, another life wasted; persevere until you find help or until you can help yourself to get out of that dark place.

Rest in peace, Kurt.